Blood Will Have Blood
by JenF
Summary: He rises from his seat, the chair scraping across the wooden floor. "I'll make enquiries," he says. "Someone must know something." The Captain nods but just as Athos reaches the door, Treville holds out an arm to stop him. "This must be discreet, Athos. As few people as possible can know about this." He looks up at Athos. "And only those you would trust with your life."
1. Chapter 1

Title: Blood Will Have Blood  
Author: JenF  
Disclaimer: I do not own The Three Musketeers, d'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun

* * *

Athos turns the parchment round, fingering the rough edges where it's been torn from a larger sheet. He holds it up to the light of the candle at his table before he sighs and drops it on the table in front of him.

"Why have you brought this to me?" he demands of the boy standing nervously beside him.

"Your name was on the letter," the boy stutters.

Athos sighs again and picks up the letter. He scans the writing one more time before turning back to the messenger.

"Tell me," he starts, "can you read?"

The boy visibly bristles and Athos can see he's hit a nerve.

"Of course," he replies. "My father taught me."

"Your father?" Athos presses. "What was his trade?"

"He was a good man."

"But what was his trade?"

The boy falls silent and shuffles awkwardly on the spot. He drops his head and mumbles a few incoherent words.

"So," Athos continues, more gently now, sensing the boy's embarrassment, "your father had no trade." The boy shakes his head. "And could he read?"

"He tried his best." The boy's head shoots up, embarrassment replaced by pride.

Athos nods and picks up the letter. "I'm sure he was a good man, but I believe reading was not a strength of his. This letter is not meant for me."

The boy deflates visibly in front of Athos' eyes and the musketeer takes pity on him.

"Leave it with me," he tells the messenger as he hands him a coin for his trouble. "I will deal with it."

The boy takes the money, uttering words of thanks as he scuttles off through the crowded bar.

Athos looks at the letter again. He can see why an illiterate messenger would have brought it to him. The 'A' at the beginning of the addressee's name coupled with the Fleur de Lis on the seal would have made it a logical assumption. The boy may not have been able to read but he hadn't been stupid either.

Athos is reluctant to read another's correspondence but in the circumstances it is the only way to determine what to do with it. Taking a long swig of his wine, he casts his eyes over the spidery scrawl on the parchment.

Treville's office is in almost total darkness when Athos arrives, just the glow of a single lamp shining through the window. He doesn't bother with the courtesy of knocking, he's known the Captain long enough to know when he can get away with barging in and when he needs to show the respect expected of musketeers of all ranks.

Treville looks up from his desk at the unexpected interruption. If he's surprised by Athos' entrance he doesn't show it. He simply puts down the papers in his hand and reaches for the brandy he keeps on the dresser behind him. He passes a glass to Athos as he waves a hand at a chair, an invitation for Athos to sit.

Athos takes the offered spirit gratefully and sinks down opposite Treville.

"I believe," he begins, "that there is a plot against you."

Treville leans back and studies Athos carefully. "There is always a plot against the Musketeers," he comments dryly.

"This is different. This is against you personally – not the Musketeers," Athos clarifies.

Treville falls into silence, twirling his brandy round his glass. Athos isn't sure but, in what little light there is, he thinks Treville has paled.

"What do you know of this plot?" the Captain asks, eventually.

"Very little," Athos admits. "I was in receipt of a letter this evening that was clearly not meant for my eyes. In it there are times and places, places that you frequent and the times at which you are regularly there."

"I see," Treville responds. "But why do you say this is personal?"

Athos grimaces. He'd known this question would be asked and rather than answer it, he simply slides the parchment over the table to Treville. The Captain looks at him then cautiously takes the letter. Lighting the lamp on his desk, he settles back.

Athos watches him silently, saying nothing when Treville, having clearly reached the end, refills his glass and reads it again. Finally he sits back and takes a third drink.

"Who else knows of this?" he asks.

"Just myself," Athos replies.

Treville nods, seemingly lost in thought. He stands and paces across his study, coming to a rest by the window. His head drops and his shoulders slump. Athos watches curiously. He's a man who has more than his own fair share of melancholy and he recognises it easily in others. He stays still, allowing the Captain his own space.

Just as he's wondering if he should leave, Treville snaps upright – all signs of hesitation and indecision gone so fast Athos wonders if it was ever there at all.

"We need to find the sender of this letter," Treville announces. "And the intended recipient."

"The name on the letter means nothing to me," Athos says, "and there's nothing to indicate the sender other than a musketeer seal."

Treville nods. "Nevertheless," he replies, "they must be found. Quickly."

Athos frowns. Treville is a brave man who, whilst not exactly prone to laughing in the face of danger, does not stand down from a fight easily. Yet Athos can detect a sense of urgency bordering on just concealed panic in the man's voice.

He rises from his seat, the chair scraping across the wooden floor. "I'll make enquiries," he says. "Someone must know something."

The Captain nods but just as Athos reaches the door, Treville holds out an arm to stop him.

"This must be discreet, Athos. As few people as possible can know about this." He looks up at Athos. "And only those you would trust with your life."


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Blood Will Have Blood  
Author: JenF  
Disclaimer: I do not own The Three Musketeers, d'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun

* * *

The letter burns a metaphorical hole in Athos' pocket as he strides down the alley to The Seven Stars. It's not the best establishment in Paris but it's warm and friendly and it's where he knows he'll find at least one of his comrades. Treville's orders to only tell those with whom he trusts his life has made his task easy – there are only three men who truly fit that description.

Forcing his way through the crowd, he seeks out the familiar figures of his compatriots. The raucous laughter from a group of men settled round a table in the corner draws his eye. Even through the gloom it takes Athos only seconds to make out the unmistakable figure of Porthos gathering up another hand of cards and, presumably, another handful of dubious winnings.

He claps his hand down on Porthos' shoulder just in time to prevent him taking another bet and shakes his head at him.

"No time, my friend," he tells him, scanning the rest of the tavern for any sign of Aramis or d'Artagnan.

Porthos rises instantly, nodding either thanks or regrets to his card-playing companions, Athos isn't sure which. He never wearies of the way any one of them will drop everything at just a look or a word.

"Where are the others?" Athos asks once they're back out in the alley.

Porthos shrugs. "d'Artagnan will be in the tender embrace of Mme Bonacieux if he's any sense and Aramis will be in the tender embrace of whoever caught his eye tonight."

"We need to find them." Athos wastes no time, turning on his heel and heading to the Bonacieux residence. He doesn't need to look to see whether Porthos is following him or not. He knows the other musketeer is full of questions but he really doesn't want to go through this three times.

The night is fresh and they come across several revellers and drunkards but everyone seems to be in good spirits and they reach their destination unimpeded. Constance's home is in darkness and Athos feels a very brief twinge of guilt as he raises his hand to knock on the door. Both he and Porthos know that M. Bonacieux is away and that d'Artagnan and Constance get so little time together. However, he muses, time is of the essence and he knows both the young lovers will understand that. With a silent apology he hammers on the door.

They seem to wait an age before there are sounds from inside the house. Athos can just make out a female voice, which he assumes belongs to Constance, followed by the deeper tones of d'Artagnan. He and Porthos wait while it feels like a thousand locks and bolts are released before they come face to face with a slightly dishevelled d'Artagnan.

"Who is it?" Constance's voice rings out from down the hallway.

d'Artagnan blinks a few times, clearly still letting his eyes adjust to the darkness outside.

"Athos?" he queries. "Porthos? What are you doing here?"

"They're standing there getting cold." Constance bustles past d'Artagnan and flings the door wide open. "Don't just stand there," she commands the two men standing on her doorstep. "Come in and shut the cold out." Turning on her heel she stomps off towards the kitchen.

"My apologies, Madame," Athos begins, hoping she can hear him, "but we cannot linger. We merely came to retrieve d'Artagnan as we have business that must be taken care of."

There is a brief moment of silence before the sound of her footsteps can be heard retracing her steps. She stops in the doorway between the kitchen and hallway, hands on hips and Athos is momentarily glad not to be in d'Artagnan's shoes tonight. She is, he reflects, a formidable woman and one with whom he glad to be friends.

"Business?" she exclaims. "At this time of night? Have you nothing better to do because I can assure you that most normal people do!"

Athos isn't sure – the light is against him after all – but he's fairly sure d'Artagnan is blushing.

The younger man turns his back on the two musketeers outside and raises his arms in, what Athos assumes is a placatory gesture. "It's alright, Constance," he says. "I'll be back soon. I promise."

Athos risks a look at Porthos and, as he had expected, his comrade has a wide grin on his face. They're both men of the world and they are both aware of what they have most probably interrupted. However, Athos cannot feel too much guilt when he thinks of the reason for this disruption to d'Artagnan's evening.

There's a distinct huff from Constance before she nods and tells d'Artagnan to go. He hugs her as he scurries off to retrieve outdoor wear. Athos and Porthos wait patiently.

"I hope," Constance tells them, "that this is warranted. You're lucky my husband is away – he doesn't take kindly to these late night calls."

"Our business is of the highest importance, Madame," Athos assures her. "Again, I apologise for the inconvenience."

He's spared any further berating by d'Artagnan's arrival, now fully prepared for the weather outside. They wait while he takes his farewell of Madame Bonacieux before heading back to the Musketeers' garrison.

They are barely feet from the Bonacieux residence before d'Artagnan bombards Athos with a thousand questions. They're questions Athos was expecting from the youngster, if not from Porthos who has much more experience of these assignments, but he's reluctant to answer them before they find the fourth member of their team.

That, and the fact that the streets in this part of Paris, whilst not on a par with the Court, are not the first place Athos would chose to wander round at this time of night.

If Athos were a believer in superstitions this is the point he would suggest jinxed the rest of the night for the trio. If he hadn't thought it, he supposes, it wouldn't have happened.

The attack, when it comes, is swift, unexpected and remarkably ill thought out. d'Artagnan is halfway through yet another question, this time concerning the whereabouts of their missing brother, when Athos senses something isn't quite right. He thinks it's the shadow Porthos is casting. He's a large man, but not _that_ large. And he doesn't have three arms.

It's this revelation that has Athos drawing his sword while sweeping d'Artagnan out of the way with his free hand. He barely has time register his mentee's safety before his sword meets that of their attacker full on. The clash of metal meeting metal sends reverberations down his arm and it takes all his skill and determination not to lose his grip.

The sound is incongruous with the quiet of the night air but Athos has no time to dwell on poetics. He can see the man coming round for a second try. He raises his sword again and spins on his heel, driving the blade of his sword down on that of his opponent. He can hear Porthos helping d'Artagnan to his feet but he has this in hand and they appear to be leaving him to it.

He takes advantage of the fact that his sword is currently holding down that of his adversary and grabs for the man's wrist, twisting his arm and forcing his hold on his weapon to weaken until Athos can easily pull it out of his grip, flinging it to one side where, he notes with satisfaction, Porthos stoops easily to retrieve it.

Athos leans forward, resting his sword across the throat of the man beneath him.

"Who are you?" he asks.

But the man seems to be in no mood to share and simply struggles vainly. Athos sighs and applies more pressure to his sword. Finally the man ceases to move and simply glares at the musketeer.

"I don't think he wants to talk," Porthos comments, twirling the man's sword carelessly round in one hand.

"I ask again," Athos repeats, "who are you?" But still he is met with only a sullen silence. "Very well," he says. "Let's start with an easier question. Why did you attack us? What is it you want?"

The silence that greets his questions is beginning to wear thin and Athos has other things to command his attention right now. He hauls the man upright. In his heart all he wants to do is dispatch this man to the local prison so that they can continue their search for Aramis but deep down he worries that this is far too much of a coincidence. His head, by which his actions are usually governed, is telling him that this man has something to do with Treville's troubles.

He toys with the idea of simply beating the information out of the man but he is still a nobleman and he doesn't believe they are quite at that stage yet. When, _if_ , the time comes he will let the soldier in him take over but for now he prefers other strategies.

He releases the man's arm, secretly pleased when he loses any semblance of balance and falls to the muddy ground.

"I have no time for petty thieves such as you," Athos hisses, leaning over the man. "Go and never let me see your face again, for I will not be so forgiving next time."

The man scrambles backwards and gains his feet. He glares at the three musketeers before turning and fleeing down the alley.

"Athos?" Porthos rumbles. "You just let him go? Just like that? He didn't answer any of your questions."

Athos straightens up and looks at his brothers. They look confused and he can't blame them. He has a reputation of being fair, not a push over, and clearly neither Porthos nor d'Artagnan was expecting him to release the man.

"We will learn more from him this way," he answers. "d'Artagnan, follow him but don't be seen. He's simply a servant. We need to find his master and whoever that is, he is not willing to give him up easily."

d'Artagnan nods and turns, about to leave when Athos grasps his arm.

"Be careful," he warns. "Don't be seen – just watch. The people he is running to are probably very dangerous."


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Blood Will Have Blood  
Author: JenF  
Disclaimer: I do not own The Three Musketeers, d'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun

* * *

They find Aramis back at the garrison, although it's clear he's not been there for long. He's propped up at the table in the yard, a candle for company and a plate of Serge's left overs in front of him.

He looks up in surprise as his two compatriots seat themselves opposite him. Athos takes a swig from the bottle on the table, offering it to Porthos, who accepts silently.

"We have urgent business," Athos tells Aramis. "Finish your dinner and let's go."

Aramis doesn't query it, just as Porthos and d'Artagnan had followed Athos without question. He simply takes a hunk of bread and puts his hat on with a flourish, rising from the table in one graceful move.

Athos nods at him, grateful for his diplomatic silence. He hadn't wanted to discuss anything in the courtyard, even in the stillness of the night. He's been around too long to be lulled by the assumed safety of the garrison at night.

They make their way to Athos' rooms, Athos striding on in front, eyes ostensibly looking ahead but actually darting into every doorway and alleyway they pass. He can hear Aramis and Porthos exchanging lighthearted banter; he can make out Porthos' questioning of Aramis' latest conquest and the romantic's evasive answers. He's always amused by their lothario's ability to say so much but give away so little, although he would never admit to listening to or partaking of such conversations.

The three men reach their destination and Athos opens the door smoothly, watching all the while for company. He's satisfied that nobody has followed them and he hopes that this bodes well for them.

Once the door is shut behind them, and they are all seated comfortably, Aramis drops the show of nonchalance they have been putting on in the street.

"What is this business that is so urgent?" he asks, "and where is d'Artagnan?"

"The boy is on an errand," Porthos explains, "but I wouldn't like to vouch for any more than that."

"If he follows orders, he'll be safe," Athos says. "It may be a wasted errand anyway."

"If you thought that," Porthos counters, "you wouldn't have sent him."

Athos scrubs his face with his hand as he nods slowly. "You're right," he admits. "We can only wait for him now though. And hope he's learnt enough to do as I told him."

"And what, exactly," Aramis queries, "is this errand that depends on him following orders?"

Athos looks at his friends. "Treville's life is in danger," he tells them, wasting no time with flowery explanations.

"His life is always in danger," Aramis muses. "He's the Captain of the King's Musketeers."

"That's exactly what he said," Athos replies. "But this is not a threat to Treville, Captain of the Musketeers. This is a threat against Treville the man. This is personal."

"Personal?" Porthos raises his eyebrows. "What makes you so sure?"

Athos briefly explains the misdirected letter and its contents. He tells them how it details Treville's movements over the last six weeks, maybe longer, and how it tells the recipient where and when the Captain is most vulnerable.

"But what the intended recipient will do now the letter is lost, is anyone's guess," he finishes.

"So that's why we were attacked?" Porthos asks.

Athos nods slowly. He's fairly sure that's the reason, although random attacks on Musketeers aren't unheard of in Paris.

"And you sent d'Artagnan after this man, knowing that?" Aramis demands and Athos doesn't blame him for the accusation in his voice. He's been having doubts about it himself but he can't be seen to have reservations.

"He can handle himself," he asserts, although he's not sure who he's trying to convince.

"Don't you think though," Porthos says slowly, thoughtfully, "that a scheme against Treville might have produced a better attack than the one we saw tonight?"

Athos has been thinking the same thing himself. It had been a ridiculously ill thought out and poorly executed attack. Why did only one man, badly trained and weak, set upon three expertly trained musketeers? Surely he must have known there could have only been one outcome.

"Yes," he admits. "Which is why we needed someone to follow him, to find out what their plans are."

There is a heavy silence in the room, interrupted only by the sound of footsteps outside. Athos tenses but the footsteps pass by, accompanied by drunken laughter, and fade into the distance.

"Does d'Artagnan know of the threat to the Captain?" Aramis asks.

Athos shakes his head, guilt gnawing at his gut. "There wasn't time to tell him," he explains. "Time was of the essence."

"Then what do we do now?" Porthos asks. "You said yourself that these people will probably be dangerous and we've sent the boy off, unprepared and alone, to face them."

"I told him to watch only. He is not to approach them."

Aramis sighs and Athos can't help but feel his judgement against his decision. "When have you ever known d'Artagnan to follow orders if he thinks better?" he asks.

Athos sinks down on his bed, head dropping as he considers Aramis' words. It's true that d'Artagnan often follows his heart, not his head, but the young Gascon has been working hard on his self-discipline and restraint. Athos has faith in him but maybe Aramis and Porthos are right, maybe this was asking too much d'Artagnan.

He looks up at his companions and sees only concern in their faces, not the recrimination he was expecting. He opens his mouth but before he can say anything there is a pounding at the door and someone outside is calling his name.

"Monsieur Athos! Monsieur Athos!"

Athos leaps to his feet and, with Aramis and Porthos behind him, he strides to the door, flinging it open forcefully.

Outside is one of the stable boys. Athos doesn't remember his name but he knows he is one of the harder workers, a young lad who loves the horses and the musketeers despite knowing he will never be one himself. The boy is panting and flushed; he's clearly run all the way from the garrison.

"Monsieur," he gasps. "Captain Treville sent me. They've found a body – he needs you come, Monsieur."

Athos' stomach turns to lead and he momentarily forgets to breathe. The boy has already turned away, as though he can't face the musketeer before him, but he's waiting anyway.

"Whose body?" Porthos demands, stepping out from behind Athos.

"I don't know, Monsieur," the boy – Robert, Athos remembers suddenly – stutters. "The Captain simply told me to fetch the Musketeer Athos as quickly as I could and then locked himself away in his office."

"Thank you, Robert." Athos finally finds his voice. "We will be there instantly," and he turns away, back into his room, letting the door swing shut.

He moves slowly, purposefully, over to his dresser where he silently collects his sword and pistol before moving to where his hat and cloak are waiting for his next excursion. He puts his cloak on in one elegant movement and takes his hat in his hand.

And finds himself unable to move.

He's lost so much, so many people he's loved, and it always seems to be his fault. He thinks he must be the most unlucky person to be around. His brother died because he could not see what his wife was. His wife died because he could not accept what his brother was. And now, this young Gascon who has become part of their group so quickly and so easily …

He feels a hand on his shoulder as another hand gently takes his hat and places it on his head.

"It might not be him, Athos," Aramis soothes. "You said it yourself, he's growing up fast. He can take care of himself."

"Exactly," Porthos joins in. "But we'll never find out standing here. Let's go and see what Treville wants from us."

Athos shakes himself down, grateful once more for these loyal men by his side. They're right, he tries to convince himself. There is no evidence that d'Artagnan is dead, that it's his body waiting for them at the morgue. Treville's message is simply that a body has been found.

There is no proof, but Athos needs to see for himself before facing Treville. If it is their Gascon – and when did he become _their_ Gascon? – then he needs to know before facing the Captain. If the body is that of d'Artagnan, then Athos will have one more life to add to his conscience, whatever his brothers may try to say. He was the one who sent the young man on this foolish mission, one that he should have sent Porthos on. The blame, if blame there is, will be his and his alone.

He opens the door and together they make their way through the deserted streets to the morgue. Standing at the entrance to the catacombs that house the last resting place for so many Parisians, Athos wants nothing more than to turn and run. As the mortician's footsteps draw closer, it's all he can do to stand his ground.

"You have a body here." He hears Aramis talking to the rotund man and he knows they are right next to him, yet they feel miles away, as though he's hearing them through a fog. He's unexpectedly thankful for Porthos' hand on his elbow, offering silent support and understanding.

"Aye," the mortician is replying. "That we do. We have many bodies here, God rest their souls, but I suspect you have a particular one in mind?"

"We do." Aramis' soft tones echo round the catacomb. "Your most recent arrival, if you please. The Musketeers brought the poor unfortunate here not long ago."

The man bites his lower lip, as though lost in thought, before nodding and turning on his heel.

"This way," he calls over his shoulder. "Came in just an hour ago – still warm, poor lad."

"Lad?" Athos's head snaps up, as all his worst fears seem to be about to be realised.

"Aye. Young lad, only just out of childhood by my reckoning."

Athos doesn't realise he's come to a halt until he feels Porthos increase the pressure on his elbow, moving him forward.

"What else can you tell us?" Aramis asks, throwing a look backward at Porthos and Athos.

"Not a pretty death," the reply comes and the mortician comes to a standstill by a bench with a body covered in a white sheet. Athos doesn't think he wants to hear any more but the man is on a roll now. "Beaten to death, quite brutal. The lad fought back though, fought hard too if the state of his hands is anything to go by." He rests his hand on the sheet, on the head of the deceased beneath.

He grasps the edge of the sheet and looks up at the musketeers, eyes coming to a rest on Athos.

"Are you sure you want to see this?" he asks. "I've seen everything man can do to man, but this shocked even me."

Athos swallows hard. _No_ , he wants to scream. _No, I don't want to see this. I don't want to this to be happening_. But he says none of this. He simply nods once.

As the mortician slowly pulls back the sheet, revealing a shock of blood soaked, dark hair, Athos feels the reassuring presence of both Porthos and Aramis at his side.

And yet he has never felt so alone.


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Blood Will Have Blood  
Author: JenF  
Disclaimer: I do not own The Three Musketeers, d'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun

* * *

d'Artagnan has been ready for this moment for a long time. The careless way with which Athos passed this task to d'Artagnan has, in the Gascon's mind at least, cemented his place within the quartet. It's not a major mission – how hard is it to follow a man who is foolish enough to challenge three of the King's best musketeers, with so little talent? Athos could have sent Porthos, but he chose him. And, menial as this task is, he will not let his mentor down.

For one, brief moment he thinks he's lost the man already, but then he spots a foot disappearing round a corner and he sets off in that direction. He moves swiftly and silently, secretly proud of himself and his improved stealth. Athos has been tutoring him in many things, mostly swordsmanship but also in the finer points of musketeering – things that may one day save his life.

The man has slowed down and periodically turns around to check for pursuers. d'Artagnan evades his sightline but the man seems to be taking a convoluted route anyway as d'Artagnan recognises a baker's shop they seem to have passed already at least once.

Eventually the man seems satisfied and slips through a darkened doorway. d'Artagnan casts his eye over the area and, once he's deemed it safe, he sidles up to the window, crouching below, out of sight from both passersby, should any happen along, and those inside the house.

He's grateful it's a warm night, and those inside the house have left the window open slightly, just enough for d'Artagnan to be able to hear what's going on inside.

A lamp is lit within and, from the sounds floating out of the window; the musketeer assumes the room is some sort of dining room. He can hear more than one person moving around, glass being clinked and the sound of wine being poured out. He hears the sound of chairs being scraped along the floor and then silence.

He wonders how long he should wait and is just about to peer through the window when he hears a voice, deep and raspy.

"Did you get the letter?"

d'Artagnan wonders what letter he's talking about but, since Athos sent him to listen only, he assumes the older musketeer knows something about it.

There's a shuffling from inside before another voice, quieter and sounding somewhat sheepish, replies.

"No, he wasn't alone."

"Hmm. So, he still has it?"

"Yes." There's a pause. "I'm sorry."

The first man sighs and d'Artagnan almost feels sorry for their attacker. It sounds as though the first man is disappointed in him more than anything else and d'Artagnan can relate to that.

"Then all is lost, Marcel. He will have read it by now and Treville will have been warned."

d'Artagnan stiffens. Treville? Is this all about the Captain? What has been lost?

"Maybe not," the second man, Marcel, offers. d'Artagnan can hear the hopefulness in his voice.

"What do you suggest?"

"A trade. The letter for something of value to Athos."

The first man snorts, a laugh of derision. "Everyone knows Athos, he's a broken man who values nothing."

d'Artagnan can't help the anger building in him. This man clearly knows nothing about Athos. The musketeer is one of the most honourable men d'Artagnan knows. He shifts slightly so he can hear more clearly and, if the opportunity arises, catch a glimpse of these two men through the window.

"There is one thing he values," Marcel continues and this, really, is the point where d'Artagnan should have paid more attention to his surroundings. But he's far too intent on the two men inside.

"What, pray tell, does Athos value above that letter?" the first man asks.

d'Artagnan hears the sound of a chair scraping across the floor as Marcel, presumably, stands. "His men."

The words are punctuated by the touch of a pistol against the back of d'Artagnan's head and the boy curses himself for being so engrossed by the two men inside that he forgot to ensure his safety from the outside. He freezes.

"And you," a third voice hisses, as the pistol pushes hard against his skull, "are one of his men."

d'Artagnan considers fighting; he thinks he could possibly take out the gunman but there are at least two men inside and there may be more. Athos told him to find out as much as he could and this seems to be the best, safest and only way for now.

He slowly climbs to his feet, hands held out to his side as the man divests him of his weapons before pushing him towards the door of the house. d'Artagnan complies, biding his time as best he can.

He's forced into the room where he comes face to face with Marcel and the other man he's heard. Both men are sitting down and neither seems surprised to see him. In fact, he thinks, they're both smiling.

"Well done, Louis," the first man congratulates d'Artagnan's captor. "And well done, Marcel. You have both played your part impeccably."

Louis gives d'Artagnan a shove and he stumbles into the centre of the room where he is acutely aware of both Louis' and Marcel's guns pointing at him. A move now would be foolish and pointless. Their leader stands and slowly walks over to d'Artagnan, like a lion stalking his prey. He circles the musketeer slowly, eyes roving over him, before coming to a standstill behind him.

"You, musketeer," he states, "have also played your part impeccably."

d'Artagnan sighs as he pieces it together. "I was meant to follow you," he says, directing his remark at Marcel. The man bows his head in acknowledgement of the statement.

"Of course you were." d'Artagnan can hear the smile in voice behind him. "We have no need of the letter now. Athos will have read it anyway. What use is it to us now?"

"Then why do you need me?" d'Artagnan asks.

"You're a message," Louis tells him. "A message to Athos and Treville that we will not be stopped and we will not be played with."

"You think this will stop Athos?" d'Artagnan queries, wondering if these men really are as stupid as they are making themselves sound.

"I think," the man behind him whispers, stepping closer so that his breath warms d'Artagnan' ear, "that given a choice between Treville and you, Athos will chose you."

"You're wrong," d'Artagnan replies, forcefully. "Athos will always do his duty first."

"Maybe," comes the reply. "Let's see, shall we?"

The man pushes d'Artagnan away from him and the musketeer stumbles slightly before spinning round to face his adversary.

"Who are you?" he demands. "What is your quarrel with Treville?"

The man takes a theatrical bow and laughs. "Not that it matters, but my name is Bertrand and Treville and I have a long, long history together. I'd tell you to ask him about it one day but I doubt you'll see him again."

"Then why don't you tell me?" d'Artagnan queries.

"Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Bertrand laughs, stepping forward into d'Artagnan's space. "Unfortunately we don't have time. Now is the time to send Athos his message."

And with a swift brutality that takes d'Artagnan completely by surprise, Bertrand swings his fist into the musketeer's face, catching him hard on the cheekbone. The force knocks him backwards several paces and by the time he's got himself together, Louis has grasped his shoulder and spun him round.

The man punches him in the stomach, completely winding him and as d'Artagnan curls up in self-defence, Marcel steps forward and throws a hearty blow at the back of his head.

d'Artagnan falls to the floor and lies there, coughing and gasping for breath. His head is muddled from the last blow but he suddenly realises that the message these men intend to send to Athos is his body. And he cannot allow that.

He shakes his head clear and rises to all fours. He can see the three men have made circle around him and are clearly waiting for him to make a move. He pauses, catching his breath and biding his time, wondering what their next move will be.

Turns out, the next move is Louis' foot flying towards his torso. d'Artagnan spins out of the way and catches hold of the man's ankle, twisting it round and bringing the man to the ground. Louis utters a string of expletives but d'Artagnan has no time to admire his turn of phrase.

As soon as the man hits the ground the musketeer rolls to his feet, dropping into a fighting stance, hands out in front of his to fend off any further attack. He eyes Bertrand warily and as the man steps forward, d'Artagnan takes the offensive. He aims a straight punch at the man's face and smiles with satisfaction as his hand connects with the soft tissue of his cheek. If nothing else, it will leave a bruise of worthy magnitude.

But Bertrand is clearly either well trained or truly motivated. His own fist meets d'Artagnan's jaw with a resounding power and as d'Artagnan reels from the impact, Bertrand's other hand flies up under the musketeer's jaw, throwing the young Gascon backwards.

He lands in Marcel's arms and Marcel tightens his grip around d'Artagnan's chest in a show of strength that d'Artagnan wasn't expecting of the man. As the constraints on his chest grow, he finds it harder to draw breath. Marcel is breathing heavily in his ear and, as his vision starts to grey round the edges, d'Artagnan throws his head back, connecting squarely with Marcel's nose. His adversary cries out in pain and releases d'Artagnan instantly.

d'Artagnan finds himself gasping for air for a second time. His limbs are feeling heavy and he knows his strength is waning. He cannot bear to become a message to Athos though, so he launches himself at Bertrand. The man is clearly in charge so if d'Artagnan can take him out, he stands more of a chance of escape, or at least negotiation.

Bertrand, however, appears to be expecting it and he steps gracefully to one side as he swipes a foot out, catching the musketeer's knee, bringing him to the floor.

d'Artagnan's head connects with a chair and he blinks the flashing lights out of his vision. He tries to rise again but Louis and Marcel, he thinks, are both there, kicking at him. He cannot gain his feet and as yet another boot finds the soft flesh of his stomach, he knows that this is the end.

Bertrand seems to have stepped aside from the fight, content to let his lackeys continue the beating – because it is no longer a fight – while he looks on.

Eventually, as d'Artagnan's grip on consciousness is about to slide away, Bertrand calls a halt to it. d'Artagnan curls in on himself, muttering apologies to Athos that he knows the man will never hear. He hears one of the men, he hasn't the strength left in him to raise his head to see which one, pick something up from the hearth.

A pair of feet appears in his line of vision and as he offers up his final prayers, he hears Bertrand's voice somewhere through the fog in his head.

"Let's send that message now, shall we?"


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Blood Will Have Blood  
Author: JenF  
Disclaimer: I do not own The Three Musketeers, d'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun

* * *

The knock at Treville's door doesn't surprise him. The only thing he wonders at is the fact there was a knock at all. That, however, seems to be the end of formalities as three of his finest musketeers enter with little ceremony.

He leans back and watches as Athos comes to a standstill before his desk, arms folded and head bowed. Aramis and Porthos take their position either side of him and look at Treville questioningly.

"What took you so long?" Treville asks. "I sent Robert to fetch you over an hour ago."

Athos seems reluctant to answer so it's Aramis that speaks up.

"We went directly to the morgue. Athos needed to see the body."

"Why?" Treville responds. "I sent for you to come here directly."

"I had to know," Athos mutters.

Treville frowns and then it dawns on him that there are only three men before him. He's not a fool and it doesn't take much to work out what it was that Athos had to know.

"Don't you think," Treville begins, "that if it had been d'Artagnan I might have sent someone higher than a stable boy?" He looks accusingly at Athos. He supposes he would have done the same thing in his position, he knows how highly Athos values his men and that the bond shared between these three men and their missing member is stronger than that of any other in the regiment.

Athos shifts and raises his head.

"I wasn't thinking," he admits.

Treville nods. "Where _is_ d'Artagnan?"

The trio before him exchange glances like naughty schoolboys and Treville wonders if they're deciding who should convey the bad news.

"He's on a surveillance mission," Athos finally tells him.

"And that's why you rushed straight to the morgue instead of here?" Treville surmises.

Athos nods again.

"It wasn't d'Artagnan," Treville repeats, "but whoever the poor boy was, he had this in his jacket when he was found." He places a piece of parchment on the desk before him. The seal is blank but the name scrawled on the front is unmistakable – Athos.

None of the musketeers moves to pick it up. Athos eyes it warily, Porthos eyes Athos warily and Aramis looks directly at Treville. After an impossible silence, Treville picks it up and holds it out to Athos. Athos takes it slowly and turns it over.

"I know this writing," he states. "It was written by the same person who wrote the letter I received earlier."

"I thought so too," Treville agrees.

Porthos coughs gently. "Are you going to read it?" he asks.

Treville sits back and looks at Porthos and Aramis. It's a fair question, he thinks. Athos has, unsurprisingly, drawn them all into this affair and they deserve to know what he knows. He presumes Athos has already shared contents of the first letter.

They all watch as Athos turns the letter over in his hands, slowly, carefully, as though afraid of its contents. Eventually, he breaks the seal and unfolds the parchment. From where he's sitting, Treville can see the other man's eyes scanning the contents. He can see the colour drain from his face and he's not surprised when Athos finally takes a seat.

Aramis and Porthos have moved closer to their leader although, Treville notes with interest and not a little pride in his men, neither tries to read the letter.

"They want to trade." Athos looks up at Treville and the captain wonders if he should understand the statement. Certainly Porthos and Aramis seem to be taking more from it than he is, as they have both straightened up and Porthos, in particular, looks as though he's about to bolt for the door.

"Who?" Treville asks, hoping the simplicity of his question will elicit the information he needs.

"You," Athos replies and Treville feels nothing but confusion.

Clearly, Porthos is having trouble understanding the answer as well. "What? Treville wants to trade?"

"No." Athos looks to his companions, his brothers in arms. "They want the captain to be the trade."

Treville's heart sinks. He had known trouble was coming as soon as Athos brought him the first letter and now, here it is, knocking on his door.

It's Aramis who asks the question they all know the answer to but don't want to believe.

"What are they willing to trade him for?"

Athos sighs. "d'Artagnan," he replies, as though there was ever any doubt.

"What else does the letter say?" Treville asks, knowing there must be more in there.

Athos throws the letter down on his desk and just looks at him. "It doesn't matter," he states. "Our duty is to protect you. We shall find d'Artagnan and bring him home. You must stay here. Or at the Palace. Somewhere safe. Find someone you trust to stay with you at all times. Maybe Maurice or La Gardière."

He stops talking as abruptly as he started. Treville leans his elbows on his desk and rests his chin in his hands as he surveys the three men before him. He knows how close the bond between his favourite group of musketeers is and he knows how this choice they've been given must be killing them. He's not so big headed as to think this is easy for them – the life of their Captain or the life of the young man who has become like a third limb to them all.

He looks down at the paper and wonders whether he should read it or not. Athos has given implicit permission by casting it in his direction but part of him doesn't want to step over that invisible line. He can feel them all watching him, waiting for their next instruction even though he knows what they all really want to be doing.

"Is the letter signed?" he finally asks, deciding Athos will tell him what he needs to know.

Athos nods. "But it means nothing to me. A surname only. Savatier."

The name hits Treville as hard as a lead shot from a musket. He closes his eyes and tries hard to suppress the gasp that tries to escape from his lips. He hasn't heard that name in nearly twenty years and he thought to never hear again. Fate, it seems, has different ideas though. Confusion vies for position with deep hidden memories of times gone by, times of hardship and happiness in equal measure.

"But it clearly means something to you, Captain," Aramis notes, tilting his head to one side.

Treville nods but says nothing further. It's part of his past he doesn't feel like sharing just yet. The revelation is too fresh for him to think beyond it at the moment. As far as need to know goes, this is something his men don't need to know.

"How will you find d'Artagnan?" he asks, efficiently changing the subject.

"That's the easy part," Athos says. "It's all in the letter. A trade at midnight tomorrow. They will meet us just outside Porte du Temple. You and I," and he nods at Treville, "are to come alone and they will give me d'Artagnan in exchange for you."

"How do we even know the lad's still alive?" Porthos interrupts.

"Because whatever else he is," Treville tells him, "Savatier is a man of his word."

Porthos grunts and Treville can sense the man isn't really convinced but he has no time to persuade him otherwise. "We shall follow his instructions," he asserts, rising from his seat. "They are expecting you to give me up. If I am not there, d'Artagnan will die. I cannot accept that."

He walks around his desk, feeling the eyes of his men on him. Athos, he knows, wants to protest, so he continues talking before his men can object. "You," he points at Aramis and Porthos, "will be in hiding." He scrubs his hand over his face, before resuming. "Savatier will have set a trap for us. There's no way he will let any of you live, not now he's given you his name."

"So we set a trap for him," Porthos concludes.

Aramis nods slowly in agreement and Treville waits to see how the proposal is going to sit with Athos. He's surprised when the man simply nods and rises from his seat.

"We have work to do," the musketeer says, directing his comments at Porthos and Aramis. He turns and walks to the door and Treville is struck by how his two comrades simply follow, wordlessly.

Athos reaches the door, stretching out his arm to grasp the handle when he turns back to Treville.

"The boy who was killed," he says. "He was the boy who brought me the first letter. I recognised him even though his killers had done their best to render him unidentifiable."

And then, without any further words, the three musketeers disappear into the night, leaving Treville with his memories of Savatier.


	6. Chapter 6

Title: Blood Will Have Blood  
Author: JenF  
Disclaimer: I do not own The Three Musketeers, d'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun

* * *

Morning comes slowly, too slowly for Athos' liking. He wanted to go charging off to find d'Artagnan but the strategist in him knows they need to be on top of their game to stand any chance of recovering the boy with minimal pain to any of them. He doesn't care about those who have taken him – they were dead to him the second they laid a hand on the Gascon.

The three men wake at the same time, a sign of how in sync with each other they are. Athos' rooms were nearest so that is where they are as the sun slowly rises above the horizon. Athos knows they should eat as they will need all their strength and so he orders them down to the courtyard to partake of Serge's infamous breakfast.

The courtyard is deserted and Athos is grateful for this. Discretion is paramount and time is ticking away. The trade is due to take place in 18 hours and Athos doesn't want the situation to reach that stage.

He grabs a freshly baked bread roll, still warm, while he ponders their next move. They sit in companionable, pensive silence, toying with their food until Porthos can clearly take it no longer.

"We're not helping d'Artagnan by just sitting here," he declares, and throws down his bread.

"What do you suggest?" Athos asks, dryly. "We don't know where d'Artagnan is. We don't know what Savatier wants from Treville and we don't know how to find them."

Athos watches Porthos with a cool façade, all the time hating himself for what he's just said. Porthos' vocalization is merely a reflection of the frustration he, and Aramis, are feeling. He has a few ideas where to start looking but he knows from experience an angry Porthos is a productive Porthos.

"We have to start looking somewhere," Porthos argues, clearly no longer able to sit still as he pushes away from the table. "d'Artagnan needs us and we aren't doing anything!"

"Calm yourself, my friend," Aramis interjects, throwing a contemplative look at Athos. "Do you really think Athos has no plan?"

The thing is, Athos thinks ruefully, he doesn't really have a plan. A few, half formed thoughts are skirting round the edges of his mind but there's nothing concrete. Then again, he concludes, it's surprising how often his half formed ideas turn into well-executed strategies.

He realises that Porthos is looking to him now for direction and he pulls himself together.

"We are to meet at Porte du Temple. I imagine d'Artagnan is being held not far from there. If I were Savatier I wouldn't risk transporting a captive too far." He pauses and takes a deep breath. "I doubt d'Artagnan is being the most co-operative hostage. They'll want to move him quickly and quietly."

"There's ways to move someone quickly and quietly," Porthos rumbles ominously. "How do we know they won't just kill him?"

"You heard Treville," Aramis points out. "He's a man of his word. If he wants us to trade Treville, then he knows he must have a living body to give us."

Porthos appears to back down and Athos marvels at the soothing effect Aramis can have on the fighter with just a few simple words. He's sure if he had made that point, Porthos would still be arguing regardless. As it is, Porthos simply paces away from the table before stopping and turning back to his two friends.

"Let's go then," he states.

"Where?" Athos asks, his voice commandeering, demanding an answer.

"Porte du Temple," Porthos replies, throwing the response over his shoulder. "It's as good a place as any to start."

"Go with him, Aramis," Athos says. "Watch his back. If you find them, do nothing unless d'Artagnan's life is in peril."

Aramis stands and sweeps his hat onto his head with a flourish. "And what will you be doing?" he asks.

"I'm going to talk to Treville," he replies. "Find out who Savatier is. There may be something the Captain can tell us that will help us find d'Artagnan." He stops and looks at Porthos' receding figure. He's stopped by the gates to the garrison and is clearly waiting for them. "We'll meet back here at dusk."

Aramis nods and follows Athos' gaze to where Porthos is still standing, clearly agitated.

"He'll be alright," he says. "I'll look after him."

Athos bows his head in acknowledgement of Aramis' assurances, although he's not entirely sure if he's talking about d'Artagnan or Porthos.

He watches until his two companions disappear through the gate and then turns his head towards Treville's office. He's not surprised to see the Captain's shadow pass by the window. He doubts the man got any more sleep than he did last night.

He mounts the steps slowly and is greeted by Treville opening the door as he raises his hand to knock. The man steps back, allowing his second in command free passage into the dim room beyond. Athos stops just over the threshold, waiting for Treville.

He watches as the man walks past him and perches on the edge of his desk. He looks wan and troubled, dark circles betraying his worry for his lost sheep. Athos knows the demands of his duties are many and that a lesser man would detach himself from the job. But Athos also knows that Treville is a wise man. One day, he thinks, that may well be his downfall. He hopes that day hasn't come yet.

"You want to know about Savatier." It's a statement, not a question and Treville looks resigned.

Athos shrugs. "Will it help us find d'Artagnan?"

Treville sighs and his head drops slightly. "Maybe. Maybe not." He falls into silence and Athos wonders what memories are playing out in his head. He's hesitant to break the Captain's reverie but he's also acutely aware of the minutes ticking by. He has every faith that Aramis and Porthos will do their job to the best of their ability but he really doesn't want to be in the position of having to go through the charade of a trade.

Finally, Treville seems to shake himself down and raises his head to face Athos.

"His name is Bertrand Savatier. His father and I fought together many years ago, before he was born. Marc died when Bertrand was just six years old. We were on a reconnaissance mission in the Dordogne when we were attacked." Treville pauses and it suddenly seems to Athos that he has aged overnight. "I tried to save him but we were outnumbered. I only just escaped with my own life. Out of the twelve men on that mission only four of us returned. I visited his mother to let her know. The boy was there but he was too young to understand. He became an angry child who needed an outlet for his grief. I'm guessing he's out for some sort of misguided revenge."

"So he's had some time to plan this," Athos muses.

Treville looks at him and Athos wonders what's going through his mind. "Nearly twenty years," he responds.

And that, Athos concludes, is long enough to make Savatier a very angry young man. He knows what it's like to brood on something for any length of time, although for him it's only been five years. He nods thoughtfully.

"What else can you tell me about him? Where might we find him?"

Treville shakes his head. "That," he answers, "I can't tell you. I haven't heard of him in years. After Marc's death, his mother moved away. For a long time I thought them to have left France. I thought – hoped – she had found happiness somewhere peaceful."

"But then something changed?" Athos ventures.

"About five years ago I received word that she had died and that Bertrand had returned to France and was likely to come to Paris. I tried to find him, to reach out to him, but he had vanished." He looks at Athos. "When a man doesn't want to be found, Paris can be the best of hiding places."

Athos nods thoughtfully. This conversation hasn't helped him as he thought it might but at least now he has a vague idea what they may be up against when they find d'Artagnan. Bertrand is on a personal mission of misplaced vengeance and that, he decides, makes the man very dangerous. If he's been ruminating over this for twenty years, he suspects they will have no time for the niceties of negotiation.

He stands and bows shortly to Treville, intending to take his leave and join the search through the myriad of alleys and pathways in the city, when the Captain leans forward and lays a hand on his arm.

"You won't find him, Athos," the man warns him. "I will be ready at midnight, at the Porte du Temple. I've let one young man down, I won't do the same to d'Artagnan."


	7. Chapter 7

Title: Blood Will Have Blood  
Author: JenF  
Disclaimer: I do not own The Three Musketeers, d'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun

* * *

When d'Artagnan finally opens his eyes it's to the beat of a marching drum. He briefly wonders where the battle is before he realises it's just in his head, pounding through his brain and reverberating round his skull.

Trying to scrub the drums from his head, he realises his hands are firmly secured to the wall above him. It would, he muses, explain the burning ache in his shoulders. He gives an exploratory tug but unsurprisingly there is no give.

He drops his head back against the wall he's propped up against and takes a quick inventory of his injuries. His head is still throbbing violently and he thinks he might throw up any minute now. The position he's in isn't helping his shoulders and the pull on his ribs is becoming increasingly painful. He wonders if one or more is broken.

His abdomen is sore and he can definitely feel where Savatier and his men took out some of their aggression on his legs.

He stretches out and wiggles his toes in his boots. It hurts but it's not unbearable. He reckons he can still walk, make a run for it if the opportunity arises.

He dozes for a while, woken by the sound of a heavy door scraping across the floor. He's slightly less disorientated than before, the marching band is still in residence but they're playing at a distance now and he can more or less ignore them.

A shaft of light pours through the open doorway and, looking up, d'Artagnan can see the silhouette of a woman carrying a tray. He tilts his head and watches as she makes her way towards him, finally stopping just out of reach.

"Will you hurt me if I come closer?" she asks, her voice soft and gentle, incongruous in this cold, hard place.

d'Artagnan shakes his head, regretting it instantly as the drummer in his skull protests. "No," he says, he's not one to hurt a woman unless his life depends on it.

The woman nods and moves to his side. She puts down the tray and d'Artagnan can see it holds a hunk of bread and some water. He wonders at this. Why is Savatier taking care of him if all he is is a message?

"My name is Anaïs," she says as she tears a piece of bread and offers it to d'Artagnan.

Taken aback, he opens his mouth and lets her drop it in, suddenly aware of how hungry he is. She repeats the action until the bread is gone. The food is replaced by water which proves to be a fairly messy affair, most of the liquid running down d'Artagnan's chin and soaking into his shirt.

Anaïs meticulously replaces the now empty jug on the tray and stands up. She looks down at d'Artagnan who meets her eye resolutely.

"Who are you?" he asks.

Anaïs frowns slightly – it's as if nobody has ever asked her that before. Her expression ages her and d'Artagnan reckons she can only be a year or two older than himself. She steps towards d'Artagnan again and puts a hand on his head.

"I'm somebody you don't want to upset," she tells him before turning on her heel and walking away.

d'Artagnan feels the loss of the warmth of her contact immediately as he watches her sashay to the door. The door slams shut and locks slide into place resolutely, leaving the musketeer in darkness again.

He has no idea what time it is, whether it's even day or night. He doesn't know how long Savatier intends to hold on to him but he knows that somehow a message has been sent to Athos. He doesn't know what that message was but if he's still alive, Savatier must have some use for him still.

Tentatively, he pulls at the ropes binding his arms above his head. They haven't loosened but then he hadn't expected them to. He drops his head back against the wall, resting as best he can. The food and drink were appreciated but now, the inactivity is weighing heavily on him. He lets his eyes close, concentrating on his other senses.

It takes a while but eventually he begins to pick out noises, muffled and distant, but it seems to him that it must be daytime. He can hear voices shouting and laughing and barrels rolling around. He wonders if there's a tavern nearby. The scent of freshly baked bread and meat slowly roasting filters through the air and the homely atmosphere just out of reach taunts d'Artagnan.

He listens to the day progressing; Anaïs visits him twice more with water but she says nothing, despite his best efforts to engage her in conversation. The final time she visits, d'Artagnan picks up a change in her demeanour. She moves swiftly and jumps at the slightest noise but she doesn't seem to be scared of anything. As she leaves she takes a long look at d'Artagnan before shaking her head slightly.

After that, d'Artagnan realises the sounds from outside have diminished and he wonders if the day is drawing to a close. He can no longer feel his hands and his stomach is beginning to protest a lack of food. From time to time he bends and stretches his legs to keep the circulation going. He drifts into an uneasy doze at one point but his position is less than conducive to a restful sleep.

When the door opens for the first time since Anaïs' last visit, d'Artagnan doesn't even react. It swings violently on its hinges, crashing into the wall it's attached to.

A figure silhouetted by lamplight stands imposingly in the frame. d'Artagnan can't quite make out who it is but he thinks it's probably Savatier or one of his henchmen. He wonders why the man is just standing there, irrationally irritated by the inactivity. Behind him, two more figures appear and d'Artagnan can feel the stirrings of apprehension in his gut.

"What's going on?" he asks, not really expecting an answer but unable to take the quiet any more.

There is, unsurprisingly, a resounding silence in reply. The man in the door moves forward, followed by Anaïs holding an oil lamp aloft. d'Artagnan tries to make eye contact with her, suspecting her to be his best bet at an ally.

His hopes are dashed, however, when Savatier enters and throws his arm around the woman, who leans in to his touch, smiling up at him. It's clear to d'Artagnan where her loyalties lie and she'll be no help to him.

Savatier drops a kiss on her cheek before moving to stand above d'Artagnan. He looks down at the musketeer with a cruel smile on his face.

"It's time for you to earn your keep," he tells him, waving a hand at Marcel and Louis who are openly awaiting his instructions.

d'Artagnan eyes them warily; they seem overly eager to comply with Savatier's orders. They advance on him menacingly and d'Artagnan has to wonder about their sanity. Louis, in particular, has a glint in his eye that, even in this dim light, bodes ill for the Gascon.

Marcel produces a knife from somewhere and roughly hacks at the rope holding d'Artagnan's arms above his head. Every slice at his bonds has d'Artagnan grimacing as the movement reverberates down into his limbs, immobile for too long. He bites the inside of his cheek to prevent the little cries of pain he longs to let out but will not give his captors the satisfaction of hearing.

As the last strand separates, his arms fall lifeless to his side. Louis and Marcel are taking no chances though and before the blood returns to his fingertips, they have grabbed d'Artagnan by the biceps, dragging him upright.

The change in altitude after so long disorientates the musketeer and he sways, inadvertently leaning into Marcel. The man is clearly unhappy with this and pushes d'Artagnan away from him, into Louis. Louis glares at his comrade and returns the favour, shoving d'Artagnan back into him. There is, d'Artagnan muses unhappily, the potential for this to go on for some time and he really is having enough trouble gaining his equilibrium as it it.

Fortunately, it seems there is no time for the game and Savatier puts an end to it before it really gets going.

"Enough!" he barks. "We have places to be, people to meet. Anaïs, go and get the horses."

Anaïs leaves the room, taking the light with her and d'Artagnan feels himself being pulled towards the door. He wants to resist but realistically he knows that would be a futile move so he allows them to guide him through a dark corridor that smells of stale beer and stale men to an exit.

His first look at the outside confirms that the day is over and by quite some time. There are a handful of people moving down the street but they seem uninterested in Savatier's party. Anaïs arrives leading three horses, saddled and calm.

Savatier draws a pistol and aims it directly at d'Artagnan's chest. "Get on," he commands, "and no funny business. I need you alive but that's all."

d'Artagnan looks at the weapon drawn against him and decides that Savatier means what he says – there is nothing unsteady about the hold he has on the pistol and he knows he is simply a means to an end, although what that end is, he still has no idea other than Treville is involved somehow.

He shrugs off Louis and Marcel and steps towards the horses. They are, he has to admit, magnificent beasts and he wonders how Savatier came across them. Probably stolen, d'Artagnan thinks as he selects the nearest horse, a beautiful black creature. In one smooth, practiced move the Gascon mounts and smoothes down the silky mane.

He only just has time to acclimatize to the horse before Marcel grabs his wrists, holding them together while Louis binds them tightly with coarse rope.

Savatier's hold on the gun has not wavered and d'Artagnan knows the folly in trying to spur his horse into action. He will not risk the life of this animal any more than he would endanger his fellow musketeers. He's a little surprised that Louis remains behind with Anaïs. Savatier and Marcel take the remaining two mounts. A part of his mind wonders if this is a good or bad thing but then Marcel brings his horse alongside him and, with a menacing grin, takes the reins of d'Artagnan's animal.

They ride for some time, d'Artagnan losing track of how many left turns they take, how many right turns, how long they keep to the main street before turning off down the first of a collection of alleyways. Eventually, Marcel pulls his horse to a halt and d'Artagnan gets his first look at where they are.

His knowledge of Paris has grown substantially since he arrived and he knows they are in the vicinity of Porte du Temple, deserted at this time of night. He looks around, wondering why they have stopped here. There is nobody here other than themselves but Savatier seems to be content to wait for something, or someone.

In the distance d'Artagnan hears church bells chiming midnight and almost in unison he hears the pounding of hooves on the cobbled street. Savatier dismounts and grins at him.

"It seems Athos has chosen you after all," he smirks as he pulls the musketeer from his mount.


	8. Chapter 8

Title: Blood Will Have Blood  
Author: JenF  
Disclaimer: I do not own The Three Musketeers, d'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun

* * *

Treville pulls his horse up sharply as the bells of the nearby church chime midnight. Athos, at his side, does likewise. Aramis and Porthos are hidden. Their talents at concealment are such that if Treville didn't have such faith in his men he would wonder if they were there at all.

The two musketeers had scoured the streets and alleys of Paris for most of the day before conceding Savatier was equally skilled in the art of losing himself. Athos and Treville had expected little else and when they met late in the day, Treville had insisted on sticking to the plan.

Thus, Treville and Athos sit before the Porte du Temple, waiting for the promised exchange.

"I don't like this," Treville mutters, looking around the darkened street. "Where is he?"

"He'll be here," Athos assures him. "You said yourself, he's a man of his word and it seems he feels he has quite a grievance to settle with you."

The words are hardly out of his mouth before the sound of a horse is heard approaching them from behind. Treville stiffens and turns his mount towards the noise to watch the silhouette of a horse and rider slowly advancing down the street.

He's grateful for the full moon, affording him his first sight of the approaching horseman. Or rather, horsewoman.

The woman pulls her horse to a halt close enough for the musketeers to make out her features, but far away enough that they can't reach out and touch her. She holds nothing in her hands but the reins of her mount and she seems to pose no threat to Athos or Treville.

But the Captain has been fooled by many before and the stakes here are higher than his pride. He cants his head to the side and looks at her, content in the knowledge that Athos is still on alert, scanning the area for her accomplices.

"You came alone?" the woman asks, her voice soft in the night.

Treville nods, although he suspects she knows full well they're not alone. His musketeers are good, but if the situation were reversed, he would not trust anyone to come to such a meeting alone.

"Where is d'Artagnan?" he asks her.

She dismounts and leads her horse slowly along the street, clearly expecting Treville and Athos to follow.

Athos turns to the Captain who shrugs and nods. Together they turn their horses to trail after the girl, refusing to give up the advantage of height and speed afforded to them by their positions.

Keeping a wary eye out, trusting Aramis and Porthos to shadow them, they make their way towards the gateway out of Paris. Treville pauses briefly to cast a glance backwards but he sees nothing.

The woman comes to a halt and Treville can make out three more horses, and three figures standing in the shadows. He spots d'Artagnan instantly. The boy's posture is defiantly upright although Treville can tell it must be taking some effort. He's been missing for longer than the Captain is happy with but he knows he must put his misgivings behind him for now.

"Where are your companions?" a voice calls out from behind d'Artagnan. "Do you think me naïve enough to believe the two of you have come alone?"

As the men dismount, Athos turns to Treville, to the outsider looking to his superior for guidance but Treville knows that in reality he is judging the Captain's mood. For one brief instant their eyes meet and Athos tilts his head and raising his eyebrows in a silent request for Treville to hold his peace for a little longer.

He turns back to the speaker, Savatier he presumes. "Your instructions were quite clear."

"And you are musketeers, famously incapable of following instructions that will not benefit yourselves."

The speaker steps forward, standing in front of d'Artagnan, blocking him from view. He takes a deep, theatrical sigh before continuing.

"Are you ready to pay, Treville?" he asks.

Treville stiffens, wondering what price is about to be asked of him. He feels Athos step closer and takes comfort from the unspoken support.

"There is nothing to pay for, Bertrand," he says. "Your father fought well, we _all_ fought well. If it's revenge you're after, you're looking in the wrong place."

Then something unexpected happens – Savatier laughs and Treville can't help the confusion showing in his face.

"You think this is about my father? Oh, Treville. How very delightful. I don't seek you out for revenge over my father's death. He was a soldier. It happens. Even as a child I understood that."

He steps forward, holding his arm out. The woman moves seamlessly to his side and in the moonlight Treville can see a faint smile cross her face.

"This is about Anaïs, my sister."

"Your sister?" Treville is surprised and slightly shaken.

"My sister," Savatier repeats.

"Your daughter," Anaïs says.

Treville stares, dumbfounded by the statement. He has no daughter, of that he is sure. He may not have been a saint in his younger days but he was always a man of honour. Had a child been the result of any liaison, he would have done the right thing by both child and mother.

"You're mistaken," he replies, his voice steady and strong.

"No," Savatier declares. "It is you who is wrong. When you brought news of my father's death you left my mother with more than just heartache and grief. You left her with child. This child."

"Your accusations are unfounded," Treville finds himself saying. "I would never take advantage of any woman like that. I loved your mother like a sister, that's all. If she was with child then, it was your father's, not mine."

"You weren't there, Treville," Anaïs comments, her voice carrying across the street. "You didn't see how we struggled, you didn't see her work herself to the bone to provide for us. She wrote to you countless times and you never came."

She steps forward and in the moonlight Treville can see the beginnings of anger tingeing the soft lines of her face.

"You abandoned us all."

Treville frowns. He doesn't remember any letters from Charlotte Savatier and he knows he would have acted upon any with news such as that presented to him now. He can feel Athos' eyes on him, waiting for his cue.

There will be time to sort out Anaïs' parentage in the morning, but his priority now is the safety of his men. He knows Aramis and Porthos are somewhere close, listening to every word. He can see d'Artagnan is poised ready for action at the slightest word and he knows that Athos needs no words, a gesture will be enough to spur him into action.

"What do you want?" he asks, not quite sure who his comment is aimed at.

"I want to know why you abandoned us," Anaïs says, stepping forward so her face is no longer in the shadows. "I want to know why I wasn't worth your time or your love."

Treville shakes his head, unable to process what this girl is saying to him. He has _no_ children.

"Why do you think I'm your father?" he asks, his voice softening as he finally gets a good look at Anaïs. Her face is familiar to him but he sees nothing of himself in it. There is no family resemblance to himself and he feels only pity for a child who has clearly been misled her whole life.

"Because I told her," Savatier bursts out, his voice hard and cold. "Because why should you live a life of happiness while our mother suffered and toiled for no reward?"

Treville sighs. "And who told _you_ I am her father?"

Bertrand visibly stiffens and Treville feels Athos do likewise next to him.

"Did your mother tell you?" the Captain presses. "Or have you spent the last twenty years believing something based on the assumption of a child?" He steps forward and looks directly at Anaïs. "Whatever you have been told, whatever you have been led to believe, is wrong. I am not your father. I'm sorry that you never had the chance to know your father but your brother is wrong."

Savatier lunges forward suddenly. "You're lying!" he cries, drawing his sword in one smooth move, pushing his sister behind him with his free hand.

Out of the corner of his eye, Treville sees Athos draw his own sword even as the Captain has his own in his hand, blade directed at the child he once knew.

As their blades meet, Treville knows instantly that this is a fight that he can easily win. The strength behind his opponent's weapon is full of fury and uncontrolled venom. Treville, on the other hand, is composed and measured. He counters the blow with ease, disarming Savatier in one smooth move.

"There is nothing to be gained here tonight," he tells the man, although his words are aimed at both Bertrand and Anaïs. "Let d'Artagnan go and we will talk in the morning. Come to the garrison, you will be made welcome there. No one will stand in your way."

Bertrand glares at Treville, the moonlight shimmering across his features. For a moment, the Captain thinks he will need to defend himself once more as the man in front of him pulls himself upright, standing tall and straight.

"There is nothing to discuss," he hisses. "You cannot fob us off again. This must be settled tonight, here and now."

Treville stifles a sigh, wondering where the child he once knew has gone. He can see Anaïs wilting under his denial of parentage and he knows she must be confused, overwhelmed by uncertainty towards himself and, quite probably, her brother.

"Bertrand," she whispers, putting a hand on his arm, "leave this now. Please."

But Savatier pulls his arm violently away from her and Treville notices how she simply accepts the action with a weariness borne from experience. The look on her face ignites a new emotion within him as he wonders how many times she has been overridden by this man.

"Can you not see he's lying?" Savatier demands of her, and by extension of his accomplices. "He's your father and he wants nothing to do with you. That cannot be allowed." He turns to face the girl, his demeanour and tone switching to one of compassion and affection. "I love you, Anaïs, and I cannot let you suffer for one more day. Not now that we've found him. You deserve _everything_ and he owes you _everything_. Now is the time to take what is rightfully yours."

"How have you suffered?"

Treville starts, he had almost forgotten Athos by his side so the question from his second in command comes as a surprise.

"This is none of your business," Savatier spits.

"But you have made it my business," Athos replies. "You made it my business the second you threatened the Captain and you compounded it the second you took d'Artagnan."

Savatier looks confused and angry. Treville considers their options, deciding that further conversation is useless and that their priority now is to retrieve their taken musketeer but it seems now Athos has started, he has more to say.

"You have heard the Captain say he's not your father," and his words are clearly directed at Anaïs. "You don't know him like I do but I can tell you he is a man of honour and discretion. He would not have taken advantage of your mother, or any woman. Were you his child he would have been there for you. I don't know what you've been told or why you've been lied to but know this, Treville is not the villain here."

Anaïs turns to the two musketeers, her head tilted to one side, and it appears to Treville that she is weighing them up, considering their words in depth.

"I'll tell you how we have suffered," Savatier states calmly, a little too calmly for Treville's liking. "We had nothing. We had to take the looks of pity and disgust from our neighbours, those who could not bear to look at Treville's bastard child and those who loved our mother but could do nothing to help us. We had to leave our village when Anaïs blossomed – do you know how men regard girls with no father? They're fair game, anyone's for the taking. I would not allow that. A little money, a stable home, a respected profession would have helped. But you," and here he raises his head, "you denied us all of that."

"You're deluded," Athos replies. "Money does not bring you happiness."

Treville sighs, this time making no effort to hide it.

"I am not lying and I am not your father. Your mother never wrote to me, or if she did I never received those letters. I don't know why you're so determined that I have any connection to you."

"I am _not_ lying!" Bertrand retaliates. "I have made it my life's work to find you and put this right."

"You may not be lying," Athos interjects, "but you are not correct either. We're getting nowhere. Take the Captain's offer – release d'Artagnan and come to the Garrison in the morning where we can put this matter to rest."

Savatier pauses and Treville wonders if they are finally moving towards a resolution. The girl by his side is looking in turn at Savatier, Athos, himself and back to Savatier.

Eventually the man appears to come to a decision in his head.

"Very well," he concedes. "We will come to the Garrison in the morning but your musketeer stays with us. He'll come to no harm as long as we are indeed welcomed tomorrow. We will be there at eight. Be ready for us." And with that he turns on his heels, pulling Anaïs with him.

Treville and Athos watch silently as the group disappear back into the shadows, d'Artagnan pulled along with them.

"Do you think they'll turn up?" Athos asks quietly.

Treville thinks for a moment before turning to his most trusted soldier. "I do," he says. "And if they don't, I'm sure Aramis and Porthos will know where to find them."


	9. Chapter 9

Title: Blood Will Have Blood  
Author: JenF  
Disclaimer: I do not own The Three Musketeers, d'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun

* * *

From their position, Aramis and Porthos have a clear view of proceedings at the Gate. The sight of their youngest is welcome but they watch the conversation between Tréville and the strangers with growing trepidation. When Tréville and Athos allow the opposing party to leave without a fight, taking their youngest with them, Porthos can't help let out a low, ominous growl.

"This don't look right," he comments to Aramis as he shifts on his horse. "What's Tréville doing?"

Aramis frowns as he shakes his head. It's clear he doesn't have any more idea than Porthos.

Porthos huffs and pulls on the reins of his steed, turning it towards the street below.

"I'm going to follow them," he announces as though there can be no other option. "You coming?"

"Can you handle them, if need be?" Aramis replies.

Porthos only just holds back an amused snort. "What'd you think?" he responds. "Where are you going?"

"Back to the barracks. There must be a reason the Captain and Athos let them go." He turns his own horse in the opposite direction to Porthos. "Don't do anything stupid," he grins.

Porthos just shakes his head and watches as his friend fades away into the darkness before setting off in the direction d'Artagnan has disappeared.

It doesn't take him long to pick up the trail – he's found smaller prey in larger spaces and this particular prey doesn't seem to realise they may be followed. That or they don't care. He ponders on the latter point for a few beats then decides he doesn't care either. He's not one for pontificating and right now his main aim is to find the group and ensure that d'Artagnan comes to no harm.

The streets and lanes are still deserted and the sound of his horse's hooves on the cobbles is painfully loud to Porthos' ears. He hopes his quarry can't hear him. In the back of his mind he knows he's exaggerating the noise level but it doesn't make him wince any the less.

He pulls his mount to a stop at a split in the road. To his left the main thoroughfare will take him back into the centre of the city. To his right there is only darkness and silence. His sensible side says 'go left, go left', but his heart is telling him the alley to the right is far more likely to lead to results.

As he chews his lip, considering his two options, he hears a sound from the alley. It's the sound of wood scraping over cobbles. It could be anything really, he muses, but in reality it's most likely to be an ill fitting door being forced open or shut. Whatever it is, it makes up his mind for him and he dismounts in one smooth move.

Patting his mount gently on its flank he whispers, "Wait here for me, yeah?" and sidles into the alley, far more silently than he ought to be able to.

Up ahead, he catches a glimpse of candlelight as a door swings closed, the grating sound confirming his suspicions. He waits long enough for whoever is inside to settle before moving out into the middle of the alley. Creeping in the shadows, while an acquired skill, isn't how he prefers to work. Porthos grew up in alleys like this and he knows he can become invisible again before anyone spots him.

Stopping just a few steps in front of the door, he studies the area carefully. It's dark and lonely out here and even though he knows there are three people plus d'Artagnan in the house before him, he doesn't know how many others there are who didn't accompany the little group this evening. It would be foolhardy, even for him, to make any attempt at rescue now. Last he saw, the Gascon was in no position to help and he doesn't want to make things worse, for d'Artagnan or Tréville.

Taking one final look around, he sighs and heads back to his horse, and the Garrison.

* * *

By the time Aramis returns to the barracks, Tréville and Athos are already ensconced in the captain's office. Mounting the steps two at a time, Aramis heads up to join them. Bypassing the courtesy of knocking, he opens the door and enters, coming to a halt only when he reaches Tréville's desk.

Athos and Treville both have a drink in their hand, despite the lateness of the hour, and it's only a matter of seconds before Aramis finds one thrust in his own hand. The brandy is good, one that Treville only brings out on special occasions.

"Where is Porthos?" Athos enquires, although Aramis suspects he already knows the answer. There is a distinct lack of interest in the other man's voice.

"Gone a-hunting," he replies, downing what little is left of his brandy.

"Just hunting?" Tréville asks and Aramis detects a hint of worry. He straightens up and nods.

"You know Porthos," he says. "He may be reckless at times, but he's not stupid. He won't do anything to endanger d'Artagnan."

"What of the others though?" Athos comments dryly.

Aramis smiles softly. "Them I can't speak for," he replies and pauses, regarding Tréville with curiosity. "Who _are_ they, anyway?"

Tréville sighs and waves to an empty seat. "We should wait for Porthos," he starts. "It'll save time later. Suffice to say there has been a decided and prolonged case of mistaken identity that d'Artagnan has found himself in the middle of and which is all my fault."

"Hardly your fault, Captain," Athos interjects. "The man is living a delusion and she has never known any different. You had no knowledge of his beliefs and so you cannot hold yourself accountable for his actions."

"I feel at a distinct disadvantage here, gentlemen," Aramis says. "A little information could go a long way to helping me. And," he adds, "I could tell Porthos so you don't have to go over it all again."

Tréville nods and leans back in his chair. Quickly and succinctly he recounts the night's events from his and Athos' point of view. Aramis says nothing while the captain talks, simply listens and digests this new information.

When the captain has finished, Athos stands, his chair scraping on the wooden floor. "I suggest we sleep. Savatier will be here in the morning and I suspect he won't be alone. We'll need to be ready for him."

Aramis nods in agreement although he knows sleep will not come easily tonight. They have their youngest to worry about and Porthos can be unpredictable when it comes to the lad.

Just as they make their goodnights, the sound of footsteps on the staircase rebounds round the room.

"That'll be Porthos," Aramis observes and, proving him correct, the musketeer in question bursts through the door.

"I know where d'Artagnan is," he exclaims, "and it ain't a nice part of town!"

* * *

d'Artagnan sinks onto the ground of his erstwhile cell. The ride back was silent, for which he is grateful. The conversation that took place between his captor and his captain has left him confused and unsettled. He doesn't believe that Tréville would ever take advantage of a woman but both Savatier and Anaїs seem so determined that there is a relationship there that it's got him wondering.

He lets his eyes close but sleep is far from his mind. His body aches but it just a dull memory of the punishment he's been put through. As a soldier he's suffered far worse in the past and will no doubt suffer again. He knows now that his injuries were designed for display over effectiveness.

Listening for any sound, any hope of rescue, he lets his mind conjure up scenario after scenario. Maybe Tréville did father a child. He is, after all, still a handsome man so in his youth, d'Artagnan surmises, he was probably sought after by many women. He smiles as he imagines a young Tréville giving Aramis a run for his money. Maybe Savatier has heard of the captain's many successes and decided to take advantage of the man's limited fame and even more limited fortune. Maybe he and Anaїs have mistaken memories. Maybe their mother talked of the girl's father with fondness that Savatier transferred onto the only other soldier who ever spent time with him as a child. The possibilities are endless.

The house around him falls silent and, testing his bonds for a final time, d'Artagnan lets his mind rest and sleep take him as best it can.

Morning comes before he realises he's actually fallen asleep. A booted foot to the ribs wakens him with brutal efficiency and through bleary eyes he sees Savatier smirking at him.

"Time to go, Musketeer," the man grins and d'Artagnan's sleepy brain takes a while to work out that the man means they're heading back to the garrison, as per last night's arrangements. He groans and rolls to one side, the pain he's suffered takings its time to make itself known. He's just adjusting to the new aches and pains when Savatier is joined by his cohorts. Taking one arm each, they haul him non too gently to his feet.

Once outside, the young Gascon takes a few seconds to really observe where he is. He's only seen this part of town in the dark up to now. It's not the best part of town but he's known worse. Not by much though. The lane is dingy and all the surrounding buildings have their shutters firmly closed against what the day may bring. He wonders what goes on behind those wooden barricades but quickly decides it's probably best not to know.

Anaïs is already mounted and d'Artagnan notices that she doesn't meet his eye. He wonders if she's having second thoughts about her parentage or whether she just knows what the outcome of this meeting is going to be already. He hopes it's the former but worries it might be the latter.

Savatier's men bring round the horses and d'Artagnan recognises his steed from last night. In the daylight he wonders why they bothered tying him down last night – the horse is old and frail, hardly the perfect vessel for a speedy get away. He looks at Savatier and raises his eyebrows.

"Really?" he asks, contempt dripping through his words.

Savatier merely looks at him and then apparently dismisses the soldier from his thoughts.

"Are you ready, Anaïs?"

She nods once, still refusing to look in d'Artagnan's direction, before spurring her horse into action. d'Artagnan thinks it funny that Savatier and his cronies are left scrabbling in her wake. It becomes less funny when they manhandle him onto the nag they've allocated him, their rough hands finding every bruise on his arms and torso.

Riding through the streets of Paris is a challenge for d'Artagnan. His uniform is grubby and to the average passerby it's unrecognisable but there's no denying the ropes binding his hands together and securing him to the horse. To start with Savatier's men form a ring around him but as they get nearer to the garrison the streets get busier and less spacious. Instead they ride side by side in front of him and behind him. Escape would be futile, d'Artagnan muses, even with a better horse.

But Paris being Paris they garner a few curious looks and d'Artagnan suspects he's raised a few suspicions, but nobody wishes to get involved in whatever it is they think is happening. d'Artagnan often welcomes anonymity but today he inwardly curses the ignorance of his fellow man although deep down he doesn't blame any of them.

The party comes to a halt, the gates of the garrison looming large in front of them. Savatier seems apprehensive for the first time since this debacle started and d'Artagnan thinks this may finally be the crack in his armour they've been looking for.

Eyes searching beyond his guard and into the training yard, the young Gascon can see his comrades standing side by side, waiting for him with a solidarity that comes with time, trust and friendship and he doesn't feel so alone any more.


End file.
